


White Knight

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bottom Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14194536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: What's a stripper to do when his newest client thinks he needs rescuing? Especially when the rescuer makes such a damn tempting offer.





	White Knight

He’s a big man, and he knows that does it for some folks. He wouldn’t be holding this job down if it didn’t.

Still, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and new clients need to be handled… carefully. He prefers his regulars, prefers _routine_ , but the club he works for sends him newbies. They’re usually rich guys, hedonistic and cocksure in their wealth, ready to be pushed around. They want to try something new, bored of the lithe bodies on the poles, the tits and the hard muscles on stage. He’s different. He’s new.

He’s an _experience_.

Looking in the mirror, he snorts at his own bravado. It helps get him in the mood for a night’s work, but it doesn’t make these shorts cut into his thighs any less. He looks good, he looks _sexy_ , ready to bust out of the leather, but he feels restricted and constrained. A costume is a costume, after all, and this costume is also a _uniform_.

Thinking about braiding his hair – he can crack the braid like a whip, and that’s a trick _all_ the boys like – he huffs when someone slams a fist on his door. It’s Gabe, barking that he’s got five minutes. He’ll forgive Gabe his tone this time, because they’re all a little stressed lately, things being what they are, and because Gabe always makes sure he gets paid on time and fair. But five minutes isn’t long enough for braiding anything decent, so he brushes his long grey hair up into a high ponytail and grabs his mask, looking himself over once more. His tits look fantastic, his gloves are even, hair is on point – he’ll be fine.

On goes the mask, and he’s out of the dressing room and sidling through the crowded back hallways. Angela is fixing Moira’s hair backstage, and they both give him a smile as he brushes past, one soft and one sharp. Moira mutters something he can’t hear and Angela barks a laugh and slaps her shoulder. Beyond them he can hear the thrum of heavy music and the heady chatter of voices, somebody shouting an honest to god _Yeehaw_ as whoever’s on stage does _some_ crowd pleasing thing. Probably Gengi doing something ridiculous and lewd on the pole again.

It’s noisy and crowded and dim-lit and vibrant and honest to god he feels more at home here than he’s felt anywhere.

“Vous avez l'air très bien, Hog,” Widow says, leaning out the door of her private room with a lazy grin. She looks like a ballerina from hell tonight, latex and tulle and ribbon tied up her long, long legs. He understands about half of what she says when she decides to stick to French, but he knows ‘très bien’ is a compliment, so he gives her a thumbs up.

It’s a good start to a day, all told, and he’s grinning under his mask as he opens the door to his room, glaring through the pig-themed mask but grinning where it can’t be seen, as he steps in and meets eyes with the man who has come to ruin him.

Akande, the club’s owner, said tonight’s show was for a rich kid, some tech guy who’d gotten real wealthy real fast. Judging by the way those eyes widen, eating him up in quick flickering glances, he was definitely appreciating what he saw. His fingers tighten on the edges of his chair, and he scoots forward, licking his lips – Hog sees a flash of gold in that wide mouth, a sharp golden tooth. Some kind of accident or illness has robbed the kid of half his limbs and more than half his hair, leaving him with two prosthetics and a punky, messy jangle of baldness and wiry fly-away hair.

He’s an ugly kid, sure as shit stinks, but he’s intriguing too. Something about the full worship in his eyes before the show’s even started, something about how different that is from most newbies with their initial nerves or even disdain for him, is very intriguing indeed.

The door slams behind him and he steps in close, reveling in the way the younger man huddles up on himself, intimidated but obviously thrilled too.

“No touching,” he growls. “No cellphone. No camera. No distractions – this is me and you time. Got it?”

“Yes.” The smaller man squeaks, and bless him but his cheeks are already reddening as Hog leans in, ample chest straining at the cloth.

And so, not knowing at all what he’s getting into, Roadhog, a niche-stripper and exotic dancer these past fifteen years, certain he’s seen it all and worse, gives a deep, roaring belly laugh.

“Well then,” he says, “let’s get to it.”


End file.
